


100 words of horror

by havisham



Category: Original Work
Genre: Developing Relationship, Ficlet Collection, Historical Fantasy, Horror, M/M, Monster of the Week
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24746686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: Various fills for 100 words prompts on FFA. Original works featuring dangerous encounters with sexy monsters.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28





	1. blessing of throats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 100 words of getting fucked by a monster. 
> 
> Featuring: monks, murder, major character death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Debora Gregor.

Brother Clement had heard rumors about the woods that surrounded the abbey almost as soon as he had joined the brotherhood last summer. After Vespers, all monks were strongly encouraged to retreat to the safety of the abbey, until the bells rang out for dawn prayers. Clement knew this and yet, he had lingered longer than he should have at the village, having been called away to attend to the birth of the young lord’s heir. Clement could not boast that he was the most learned of men, but it was known that he seemed to have a lucky touch. The babes that were born to his prayers seemed to thrive. 

The sky was darkening as he headed out. Young Lord Courtney bade him to stay and take part in the celebrations, but Clement declined. He did not wish the Prior to think that he was tempted into drunkenness or other unpleasant business. Then, Clement’s meager freedoms would be even more drastically curtained. 

As he walked along the road, he admired the soft beauty of the woods at dusk. A cool wind blew past him, carrying with it the smell of some flowers Clement couldn’t identify. The light in his lantern guttered and he made haste to protect it. He disliked the thought of walking the road in the dark. 

“Where are you going, sir?” asked a thin and raspy voice from the shadows of the trees. Clement looked up in alarm, but relaxed when he saw that his interlocutor was a slim young man, who slipped past the branches of trees to look at him. He was dressed well for a roadside waif -- Clement would wager (if he did wager) that his doublet was at least as richly made as Lord Courtney’s, and his leggings were tight against his youthful frame. 

“Are you lost, young man?” Clement asked doubtfully. “For surely everyone knows this road goes only to the abbey.” 

The boy dipped his head and in the light, Clement saw that it was lightly colored, as if he was capped in gold. The boy looked at him, but there was no mischief in his dark eyes. “I am lost,” he agreed. 

“The village is behind you and the abbey ahead,” said Clement, moving on. He had no time to waste speaking to a strange youth in the woods. Not when night was falling so thickly around him. But his new companion did not quit his side, instead, he shadowed Clement’s steps, stopping whenever Clement stopped. 

“Do you have business with Prior Robert?” Clement said, his voice sharper than its usual wont. He was uncomfortable with his new companion, but the boy seemed ignorant of it. He shook his head. 

“I do not know such a man,” the boy said. He hesitated for a moment. “What is your name, Brother?” 

“Clement. What is yours?” 

“Jehen,” said the boy. He smiled and reached out to Clement. “You would not mind, Brother Clement, if I borrow your light?” 

Before Clement could protest that he _would_ mind, his lantern plummeted to the ground, before Jehen could even touch it. Clement crouched down, trying to see if it could be saved -- it could not, being broken beyond all repair, and the light gone out entirely. 

When he rose again, the road was dark and he was alone. 

A shudder ran through Clement’s body. He knew now that there was some devilry afoot. He tried to steady his soul by praying aloud as he turned toward his destination. The moon gave fitful light across the pebbles of the road, but it was enough to guide his steps. The woods, which had been quiet, now seemed full of activity. He could hear cries and whispers all around him, a cacophony of voices that were calling his name. 

Clement ignored them and raised his voice in prayer. 

The distance from the village to the abbey was only two miles and Clement felt as if he had been walking long enough to reach it. But he could not see the lights ahead of him, nor hear the sound of the bells. 

He was not surprised when Jehen appeared before him again. He was indeed a form the Devil had taken to tempt Clement to some sin. He must have been. Even so, he did not seem bothered by Clement’s prayers, or indeed, he did not seem to hear them. His bright head was cocked, as if he was listening for some other sound. 

“Do you know why your Prior wishes to keep you cloistered away?” he asked. His voice had not improved since he had spoken last. It was odd to hear such a scratchy sound come from such a well-shaped throat. 

“Temptation is everywhere, even among the trees,” Clement said, keeping his eyes forward. Or at least, trying to. Jehen touched his shoulder. His hand was cold and yet Clement stopped as soon as he did it. 

“No one will know what you do in the dark,” Jehen said. His eyes were so bright and when he opened his mouth, Clement could see his teeth, like fine pearls on a velvet pouch. He did not know which of them moved first. He believed it was Jehen, as the boy was clearly of the Devil, but it could have easily been himself. 

He had tried so hard to resist temptation, to never think of his own impurity and sinfulness. He had chosen to come to this particular abbey due to its remoteness and lack any unduly stimulating attractions. He had been right -- the library, such as it was, was unimpressive and all the other brothers were old and unattractive, more liable to grouse about the ill taste of the porridge than to talk of enlightenment. Nothing there satisfied. 

But boredom was an inadequate punishment. Clement’s hunger went unabated. 

So he kissed that evil boy, knowing as he did so, all of his past struggles were for naught. Jehen’s mouth was cool against Clement’s, like water against wine. He stepped away for a moment with a wry smile and got to his knees. His mouth was open, like a sacrifice. 

When Clement shoved in his cock into Jehen’s mouth, both of them groaned, but it was Clement who was on fire with it, the feeling of it, of sin made flesh. He watched the lines of Jehen’s fine throat work against his cock, hypnotized by the push and pull of it. He thrust in deeper, harder, careless of Jehen’s comfort, or indeed, his ability to breathe. 

And yet Jehen took his abuse and dared him to go deeper, take more. His hands were everywhere, pulling Clement’s cassock into deep disarray. His throat was still bared, and yet it took too long for Clement to notice the dark gash that marred its pale beauty. 

Jehen’s throat was cut from ear to ear and Clement could see his own engorged cock through the gash. 

He cried out and tried to withdraw himself, but Jehen had his arms around him, a mockery of a lover’s hold. Even as Clement struggled, he could not get away. 

He would not get away. His last words was not a prayer -- at least, not one God would recognize.

*

It was Brother Petrus who found the body the next day and called for help. It was a pathetic sight -- Brother Clement had come so close to the abbey, and yet, here he was, splayed across the road, naked except for his cassock, draped across his groin.

That had been gentle Brother Cassius’ doing, so that poor Brother Clement would not be ashamed before God. All would have supposed the death to be an accident -- a misadventure found in the dark, save for the hideous gash across Brother Clement’s throat. 

But even if he had been waylaid and killed by some brigands, they would have had to be remarkably careless ones, for Brother Clement’s pockets were still heavy with Lord Courtney’s donation to the abbey, to mark the joyful day of his son’s birth. 

When Prior Robert was informed of the loss, he naturally lamented but reminded the brothers the dangers of ignoring his prudent advice and going to into the woods so late at night. Nothing good or holy could be found in those woods, he said, with a melancholy air. Nothing at all.


	2. Beastly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for 100 Words Of Rewards For Being Good At Killing.

The portrait was the very likeness of St.  
Germain’s dead father. He looked away from it with a sigh and gestured to his visitor to come closer. Mathieu did so cautiously, his hat in his hands. To a disinterested observer, this would seem to be a noble scene of an aristocrat condescending upon one of the unfortunates of  
the city, perhaps due to some spirit of charity. 

However, this was not so. 

“It has been six months since my unlucky father met his gruesome end,” said St. Germain meditatively. “They say that that area of the park is still haunted by the wolf that killed him, despite all efforts by the authorities to capture it.” 

The light in the gallery was poor — it was almost evening time — but he stepped deliberately in front of one of the windows. The setting sun seemed to give his auburn hair and green eyes a demonic tinge. 

“I owe you my thanks for your services,” St. Germain said, with a slight nod towards Mathieu.

“You owe me more than just thanks,” Mathieu said. He tried not to seem overawed by his benefactor. It had been the new Marquis de St. Germain who recognized the use of his unholy affliction, but it was Mathieu who had given the Marquis his inheritance so quickly and without pain. 

St. Germain smiled. And though he was no doubt a handsome man, it was an unpleasant sight. “Very well. Get down, dog, and I will give you your reward.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Sadly, not *that* St. Germain, obviously. 
> 
> \- Mathieu is a distant relative of [the Beast of Gévaudan.](%E2%80%9C)


	3. I’ll be Seeing You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt: 100 words of coming back wrong.
> 
> Some things can’t be completely lost during the fog of war. 
> 
> Featuring: jealous best friends, mysterious deaths, vintage Hollywood!, and an unsolved mystery.

It had taken some doing to get Widow Alfred to understand that Johnny wasn’t coming back from the war. 

Luce, Johnny’s best friend, had been the one who had to break the news to the old woman — Johnny’s grandmother, the only one of the family that was still living. The old woman’s clouded blue eyes seemed to clear for a moment, fixing on him like a hawk’s.

“Why him, not you?” she asked and Luce was at a loss to answer her. 

Johnny had been the great hope of not just his family, but the whole town too. He had been cheerful, patriotic, and oh so handsome. Just looking at him made your heart pound hard in your chest. Luce was nothing like that. He was the shadow to Johnny’s bright sun — not even important enough to be the moon.

But still, Johnny was dead, his body disintegrating in the mud somewhere in France. Luce was young and alive and felt gratitude for every moment he’d clawed back from the war. 

After he’d quit Widow Alfred’s home, he went back home and packed. His mama followed him around anxiously but when he told her his plans, she didn’t dare gainsay him. 

Luce cashed in all his savings and planned to go south. He wanted to make his way to Los Angeles, eventually. He and Johnny had always loved the movies.

He left Port Townsend behind with nothing but a single suitcase and Johnny’s third upper molar, secure in the breast pocket of his suit.

*

Luce didn’t believe in ghosts, ghouls or monsters, but working late on the lot did sometimes get a little eerie. 

The studio he worked for had a whole division dedicated to pumping out cheap and lurid monster flicks. That was where Luce had found his place, as an assistant props manager, at first, then the real thing when his superior was struck in the head by an overhead light. 

All that was all well and good — and there were even some directors, who managed to make genuinely frightening films, even with the obvious budget constraints— but a decade in Hollywood had ruined movies for Luce. 

He couldn’t watch anything without wondering why the actor had pronounced a word _that_ way, or why the lighting director had made that scene _so_ dark or why no one had noticed the visible string on the skeleton until it was _too_ late.

Still, he would rather stay late and then go see a movie, then hang out at the bar with his coworkers. Maybe that would ruin his future chances in the industry — being the odd man out and all — but he didn’t care. He spent more than ten hours with those people, he didn’t want to spend more.

So he was walking home from having watched a midnight screening of _The House of the Thousand Dead_ when he saw what he thought was a vagrant sitting on the steps of his modest bungalow.

“Hey buddy, get off the steps,” said Luce. “There's a YMCA down the road, they can give you a place to sleep.”

The figure pulled itself upward and staggered towards the street lamp. His face was visible now. It was strange and ruined, but there could be no doubt — it was Johnny.

*

The sizzle of cold egg hitting the hot bacon grease seemed to wake Luce up a bit. He glanced over to the kitchen table, where Johnny sat quietly, his skeletal hands clasped around a hot cup of coffee — which he did not drink. 

Johnny hadn’t been able to say how or why he’d survived his wounds and made his way over here.

“Does your grandma know you’re still around, Johnny?” Luce asked as he jiggled the pan to see if the eggs had set. They had. He turned off the stove.

“No,” Johnny said. “I haven’t gone back to Port Townsend at all. I needed to see you first.”

Deliberately, Luce took out a plate from the cabinet and put the eggs and bacon on it. He placed the meal in front of Johnny, who shook his head.

“I can’t eat that,” he said and Luce’s temper snapped.

“What are you playing at? Wearing the skin of a dead man and coming here,” Luce spat out, looking at the thing at the table with loathing. “What are you trying to do, make me feel guilty? I haven’t done anything wrong. No jury in the world could ever convict me.”

Johnny only looked at him. His eyes were like his grandmother’s, clouded and blue. He blinked slowly. 

“I’m tired,” Johnny said and looked pleadingly at him. “Can’t we sleep, Luce?” 

*

Luce didn’t go to work the next day. Or the next. It was on a Wednesday that the director sent an production assistant to see what Luce was up to. The girl came to the bungalow and found everything locked and shut up, with Luce’s car still parked on the street below. She wriggled her way into the garden and tried the back door. It was open. 

Inside the kitchen, she found a cup of cold coffee and a plate of eggs and bacon, covered in flies. She wandered into the bedroom and then quickly walked out again to call the police.

*

Lucian May’s murder barely made the headlines. There was no compelling drama attached to it, no jealous lover or connections to glamorous movie stars or angry gangsters. Kenneth Anger dedicated a single sentence to it in his bible of showbiz debauchery and crime, _Hollywood Babylon_.

The police had found Luce laid out in his bed, wearing the same clothes he had worn a week ago. He was in an attitude of complete repose — only his face was completely bashed in. The coroner said that only a single cheekbone had survived the assault. The police identified him with the fingerprints that the studio had on file for him. 

On the pillow beside him was a single human tooth.


	4. Fields of Splendor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 100 word of naked in a field. 
> 
> Featuring an artist being accosted by his muse.

It wasn’t until Christian had set up his canvas and paints that he noticed the stark naked man encroaching on the marvelous vista he had planned to paint. 

At first, he thought his eyes were simply mistaken. It was true that this countryside — with its rolling green hillsides, distant mountains and the wild and open sea beyond it — was far from anywhere that could be described as _civilized_. But the locals, such as they were, seemed to prefer to wear more clothes than needed, rather than less.

He studied the man cautiously, hoping he would clear out right away. But no such luck. The man lazed about on the soft grass, in an attitude of great relaxation. Christian was certain the man hadn’t been there when he’d picked this spot out.

The man was a young man, perhaps younger than Christian himself. He had black hair and light brown skin that shone with health, and his face was puckishly handsome. 

“I say,” said Christian, his voice weak. No! He had to be strong, firm. Just like when he had told his father his intention of becoming an artist, plying his talent _en plein air_ like his heroes Monet and Sargent. “Sir, could you be off? The light is very uncertain today and I must start this painting.”

The man considered it. With an air of great condescension and magnanimity (that was at odds with his nudity) he said, “Don’t let me stop you.”

“No, no, I suppose you don’t understand — I’m painting the field. I don’t want to paint you, you see. Now, here’s a sixpence. Go off and get dressed, hmm?”

The man sat up, seemingly abandoning his redolent attitude at once. “You stupid man, don’t you recognize me?”

“Should I?” Christian asked, puzzled. 

“I’m your muse,” said the naked man. He stood and approached Christian’s supplies. Christian cried out in horror when it seemed his beastly visitor would dip his fingers in the paint. Instead, he took one of the brushes and flicked drops of turpentine on the canvas.

Christian hastily wiped off the canvas, glaring at him the whole time.

“Well?” said the man — or rather, the muse. He stepped back and struck a provocative pose. “Get painting. As you say, the light’s going.”

Christian bit his lip and got out a piece of charcoal and began to sketch the man.

“I’m doing this under duress,” he said, almost to himself. His hand was moving far quicker than his mouth. “I hope you don’t expect me to pay you for this — this nonconsensual modeling!”

The muse only laughed at him. The light did indeed change but Christian was too absorbed to notice.


	5. New Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kit's best friend Nate has undergone blood-thirsty change. But Kit still loves him.
> 
> Written for 100 words of kisses on the necks of best friends.

Ever since Nate had turned into a vampire, Kit could feel the difference in the way his best friend looked at him.

It wasn’t Nate’s fault that he’d become a vampire. He’d always been kind to a fault — saving spiders that wandered into the bathroom, giving rides to the airport, and what had ultimately killed him — trying to save a stranded motorist, who turned out to be a starving vampire. The vampire had sucked Nate dry and left his body out to freeze in a snowbank. The campus police said it was probably an accident that Nate had turned at all instead of just dying.

The university paranormal health center had issued Nate a few bags of blood and some guidelines to follow in his new undead life, but Kit thought that he might be the only person who even noticed that Nate was — well, Nate was _different._

The two of them had totally different schedules now — Nate, by necessity, could only go to night classes now, and then to his job as a security guard at the science lab — while Kit went on as always. He missed talking to Nate about the day, and he never saw his friend except in the evening when he came back from classes and Nate was going out. They would exchange greetings and that was it. It was as if Kit was living alone.

That night, Kit had come back early with his dinner — a sub sandwich from the deli he worked at. He was still fumbling with his keys and his sandwich bag when he felt a cold wind against his back. Nate walked so quietly now that Kit couldn’t help but shout when he heard a quiet voice greet him.

Kit dropped the sandwich he was holding but Nate grabbed it out of the air before it hit the ground.

“Wow, your reflexes are amazing,” Kit said when Nate handed the sandwich back to him. Nate smiled. His teeth were really white and sharp now. Kit blinked. It wasn’t as if Nate had been a _bad-looking_ when he was alive — he had been perfectly normal. But now he seemed —tragic and darkly handsome, with brooding features and —

“Shit, my hands are covered in mayo, hold on,” said Nate, turning away to wash his hands. Kit briefly considered whether or not he should still eat his sandwich before deciding that of course he would.

“Are you hungry?” Kit asked in lieu of anything else to say. “Oh also, Mike’s throwing a party tonight. BYOB.”

“I don’t drink … beer,” said Nate distractedly. Yep, he was doing that thing again. He was clearly staring at Kit’s neck. Kit put a hand on his neck uncomfortably before he cleared his throat.

“You are hungry, aren’t you?” Kit’s voice rose. “Tell me, Nate.”

“I’m fine,” said Nate, with a close-mouthed smile. “I still have a bag of blood from the health center. It should last me a week.”

“You could … you could drink from me,” said Kit. Nate’s eyes flashed bright.

“No. It wouldn’t be … right,” Nate said, licking his lips. “The guidelines said that you shouldn’t drink from living people without explicit, informed consent. You don’t know what I could do, Kit.”

Kit smiled. “Come on, Nate. You’re my best friend. You’d never hurt me.”

“You don’t know that,” Nate snapped. “Honestly, Kit, it’s like you haven’t even been paying attention to what happened to me. Every night I wake and I smell your blood. It takes every ounce of control for me to —”

Kit reached out and took Nate’s ice-cold hands into his warm, living ones. He looked his best friend in the eyes and said, simply, “I trust you.”

Nate sighed and leaned forward, pressing his mouth against Kit’s neck. He bit down, hard and started to drink.

*

Several hours later, Kit woke up from the swoon of death. He was cold and terribly thirsty. He glared at his friend, who was hovering anxiously over him. “Fucking _hell_ , Nate.”


	6. wind on the water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for 100 words of mending your partner's clothes. 
> 
> Martel, a simple fisherman, is unwillingly drafted into the opening salvo of the human-selkie war.

Martel had always been a dab hand at mending, which was why he reached for a needle when a wounded selkie appeared at his door.

He knew the selkie by sight — every week, he’d see the sleek grey head bob up from the water, the selkie’s eyes watching him with more than animal intelligence. Before coming to the island, Martel had doubted the existence of selkies, but no longer. The evidence was all around him — the clan of selkies that dominated island life, slipping from human form to seal on a whim, tied to neither shore nor sea. 

This one however, Grey-head, Martel had only ever seen as a seal. He’d heard tell that some selkies rarely if ever left their seal form, to the point where they turned feral, unfit to be human. But the people who said that sort of thing were usually careful to keep their voices low, in case the selkies overhead.

Martel had no idea how this selkie even knew where he lived, a wild creature he was.

There was a trail of blood from the beach, terminating at Milner’s door. Most of the locals knew better than to mess with selkies, but clearly someone had done this rash and cruel act.

There was a bloody great gash on the side of the selkie. When Martel bent down to see it more clearly, the selkie bit his hand. Martel grit his teeth and pulled his hand away. The selkie looked at him with deep, impossibly black eyes. 

“What do you want me to do?” Martel asked hopelessly and the selkie gave him a scornful look. But he _shifted_ and changed and there was a naked young man lying on Milner’s floor, his skin beside him.

Martel looked at his floor — covered in seal visceral liquid, staining his boots. He wished he had never opened the door to the selkie’s knocking.

“Don’t just gawp at me, fish man,” said the selkie, his voice strange and barking. “Stitch up my skin.”

Martel had already been doing his mending, his supplies were already out. He picked up the skin gingerly. It felt alive in his hands, warm and wet. He brought it closer to the fire, to see the damage better. The selkie moved with him, unwilling to let it out of his sight. Martel knew the risk he was taking. A selkie’s skin in a man’s hands was a dangerous thing.

Nonetheless, he had to concentrate on closing the wound. He’d supposed it had been the work of a jagged reef or else a knife, but when he cleared the blood, he saw the ragged edges of a musket ball. He looked up and into the selkie’s eyes, unbelievingly.

“Someone _shot_ you?” 

The selkie was a beautiful man, as well-made as a prince. His cheekbones looked like clamshells and his eyes were the color of the sea. His hair was still grey, however, though his face was young. Martel felt unworthy of looking at him, which he felt as though the selkie agreed. 

“A drunken fool took a shot at me,” he said and looked at Martel accusingly. “A human fool. Like you.”

“I didn’t do it,” Martel said defensively. He felt foolish and so went back to his work. 

“Your kind did,” replied the selkie. “Spilled my blood, tried to end my line.” 

There was nothing to say to that. Martel had to concentrate on his work. An uneasy silence settled between them that was only interrupted by the rattling of his kettle. Martel had put it on the stove just before everything had happened. His stove was a slow, cold thing and perhaps that was a good thing now, for it had saved his cottage now.

“Turn that off, would you?” Martel said, as he pulled the wound closed. “I’ve my hands full.” 

The selkie stood and walked to the stove, examining it closely. He reached out to touch the red-hot kettle but Martel warned him. 

“Use the mitt,” he told the selkie, miming the use of it with his hands. The selkie eventually turned it off but the tea was beyond drinking.

By that time, Martel had finished his mending. He held the seal skin fast as the selkie turned toward him. The selkie’s eyes bore into him.

He knew the warnings, he knew the tales. Woe befell those who put themselves between a selkie and their skin. Even as he knew this, he held the skin back. He knew that once he gave it back, he would never see the selkie again. But he would never see the selkie, because he had tried to take its skin. The cyclical nature of the problem made his head spin. 

“Tell me your name,” Martel said, his tongue feeling awkward in his mouth. “That is the payment for my service.”

The selkie considered it. Martel saw him weighing the options. Whether it would be better just to kill Martel and snatch the skin away. 

Martel chose to save himself. He put the skin down on the chair and stepped away. The selkie snatched up the skin and in a few moments, he was out of the cottage. 

That was that, Martel thought, until the selkie stuck his head back through the door. “My name is Ioan, and that’s all you’re getting from me.”

“Fair enough,” Martel said. “Though if you tell me who shot at you, I’ll do my best to catch him and bring him to the sheriff.” 

“Don’t pretend to be a good person now,” Ioan declared and left for good this time. 

Even so, the next morning, as soon as Martel reached his boat, he saw a now-familiar grey head bob up from the water. He watched in astonishment as Ioan shifted into a man and clambered on to the boat. He had his skin tied around his hips, which covered none of his nethers. Not that Martel noticed — 

“Brothers and sisters!” shouted Ioan, looking out to the water. Martel saw many more selkies looking out at them. His small boat was quite surrounded. “This fish man has vowed to help me get vengeance on the one who tried to kill me. We are partners in this endeavor!”

The selkies howled and slapped their tails against the boat, shaking it violently. Martel clutched the stem of the boat and wondered how in the world he would be able survive this.

Ioan met his hopeless gaze and smiled at him. “What do you say, partner?” 

Martel had little choice but to smile and agree. 


End file.
